


Love-15

by writingwithmolls



Series: 2020 Fódlan Summer Olympics [10]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sports, Byleth is for the Olympics as a whole! watch them fall in love!, F/F, Fodlan Summer Olympics, Hubert needs a break and a nap at least, Mercedes is the best friend anyone can ask for, Tennis, betaed we don't die like odessa, we don't speak of Annette's father
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:22:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26141056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingwithmolls/pseuds/writingwithmolls
Summary: Only one more game stands between Hubert and a gold medal. Even though he is focused and prepared, he ends up in an unlikely conversation with a doubles pair from Faerghus.Annette and Mercedes no longer qualify for gold or silver, but their final game gives them the opportunity to stand on the podium. While Annette finds herself distracted, Mercedes continues to keep her grounded and focused on the sport that they love.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic & Mercedes von Martritz, Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth
Series: 2020 Fódlan Summer Olympics [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1881421
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	Love-15

**Love-15**

Hubert tossed the ball up into the air, swinging his arm to meet it with his racket. As laughter echoed off the walls of the indoor courts, he sent the ball straight into the net. On any other day he would have been able to push the distractions aside, but the doubles partners next to him were testing his patience. He was finding it increasingly difficult to block them out, both of the girls’ banter constant and never-ending. He considered requesting his coach to ask them to  _ be quiet _ , but it would reflect back on his country. He never cared much for his own reputation, but he drew the line at his harsh attitude being associated with Edelgard.

Picking up the hopper, he went to the middle of the court and collected the balls that had gathered by the net. There were more than usual, his mistakes happening consistently throughout his practice session. Hitting the net would earn him no points. He had gotten through the last six matches—controlled each and every one of the games. Hubert did not mess up, there would be no room to send a ball sailing into the net during his final set. He collected the balls and returned to the line, taking a deep breath and rocking back and forth. It was more off-putting than he cared to admit that he was messing up his serves. Once he broke into the professional scene he was known for his wicked serve, an impressive feat for a child. Of course, they would praise every bit of his play style: his forehands and backhands, his offensive plays at the net, his ability to outlast any opponent when it came to mind games. His serve was always his crowning achievement, sitting comfortably at the peak of his success.

He rolled his shoulders back, taking a deep breath, repeating the motions of the serve like a mantra in his head. Toss the ball in the air. Bring his weight onto his back foot. Wait for the ball to reach its peak—let it fall ever-so-slightly to the correct height. Meet the ball with the racket, throwing the weight forward. It was all in the wrist, snapping at the proper moment—not too high, not too low. Finish the swing through to the waist, even when the ball was long gone. A serve involved his entire body, if just one aspect was off, the ball would act unpredictably. Hubert knew that the serve was successful listening to the crack of the ball leaving the strings of the racket, watching it send the cone he was aiming for flying into the air. It had taken two decades to perfect his form and he knew that it was enough to scare any person on the other side of the net.

“Yay! That one was so good!”

Hubert turned abruptly when a cheerful voice rang out from the court next to him. The smaller half of the doubles pair was watching him, smiling wide as he stood on the service line. He pretended not to hear the comment, turning his attention back to his own practice. He had gotten the update that the partners next to him had lost their chance at gold and instead were playing the match for bronze the next day against a pair from Dagda. For two women who had lost, they were in an awfully chipper mood. Hubert grabbed the next ball from the hopper, bouncing it a few times against the court to get back into his groove. Although he had hit the cone, the last toss was a bit too in front of him. He felt himself having to reach just an inch forward to meet the ball. Although such a detail would hardly matter in the grand scheme of most things, that one inch could have been enough to throw off his balance and hit the net once more. He had to be careful.

After a couple more successful serves, he found himself listening into the conversation on the other court once more:

“Mercie, by your feet!” the smaller one urged.

“Oh, thank you.” The older woman’s voice was much softer. Hubert had seen their matches online: Mercedes von Martritz and Annette Fantine Dominic. He had never played either of them, but the duo from Faerghus were always dominating tournaments. Annette was a prodigy like Hubert, joining the pro-ranks at a young age. Mercedes had taken longer to break into the competitive scene, but she was still a well-loved player. She may not have had the flashy skills or quick hits that the other players sported, but it was her consistency that paved her path to the top. With Mercedes as part of the pair, it was always a guarantee that the ball would come back to the opponent in a rally.

Hubert had only spoken to them once or twice during the competition, running into one another at the event arenas as they made their way up the brackets. Although Hubert didn’t watch the replay of their match (watching his next opponent took precedence), he heard that Annette had taken it hard. They were doing well in the tournament up until that point, but they lost momentum from the very first set, not standing much of a chance. Still, they seemed more than  _ thrilled _ to be on the courts at the moment, playing a singles match against one another. It couldn’t have been very helpful—so much of doubles relied on how the pairs interacted with one another on the court—but they continued to just play against each other like they were taking a Sunday off instead of implementing usual doubles drills.

Another ball hit the ground half a foot out of the service box. Hubert grumbled to himself, stepping away from the court to grab a sip of water. He didn’t know what had come over him, apart from the laughter and banter of the adjacent court. Even then, he had practiced with bubbly individuals before—why this day of all days was it grating against his ears?

“Hello, Hubert, is your final also tomorrow?” He looked up to find himself face-to-face with Mercedes, who had come over to his court. “I saw your last game, the final rally was truly something.”

“It was only a last-ditch effort,” Hubert said. His game the previous day had been a quick one, but his opponent nearly took the second set after gaining some momentum. It was bothersome, but the last thing Hubert wanted was to play a third set against him. He was skilled, but his mistakes were easy to pick apart. The opponent was too easily distracted—it had gotten the best of him on the court.

“I thought it was amazing!” Annette joined them at the bench. Hubert had to stop himself from shooing them away. It would win him no favors to be rude to the two women, but he didn’t appreciate them inserting themselves into his practice. “You were so terrifying when you charged the net, I wish I looked just as scary while I’m playing. Especially when you took the overhead shot—it took my breath away.”

Hubert recoiled at the praise, nearly choking on his water. He coughed a few times, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. When was the last time a fellow player complimented his play style? The announcers would always talk about his demeanor, but it was rarely positive.

“Are you okay?” Mercedes asked, tilting her head to the side. “It will be exciting to watch you play for the medal. We’ll be able to make the game, hopefully we can still get good seats.”

“Thank you,” Hubert said, hoping a curt answer would end the conversation. It did not.

“Do you want to play a match? Canadian Doubles?” Annette asked. “We can help you get a bit loosened up, you look a bit tense and that’s no good.”

“You keep frowning at your serves.”

“That is just my face.” He felt his scowl deepen. He did not have time for this kind of distraction. “I do not need to play against you.”

Annette frowned, deflating before his eyes. “Oh.”

“You can return my serves, if that would please you.” Somehow, the puppy-dog eyes had gotten to him. The red-head had looked so damn sad at the prospect of not playing tennis with him that he  _ let the two of them onto  _ his  _ court, the day before his final match. _

“Sounds like a deal,” Mercedes said with a gentle smile. They broke away from the bench to grab their rackets, leaving Hubert to the silence he wanted—and the only silence he would get for the rest of practice.

As the pair returned to his court, they cleared the balls that were threatening to trip them and took up spots on the service line. Hubert rolled his eyes, grabbing one of the full hoppers that the ball boys had filled during his break. He put it on the center of the line, hoping to practice his serves from both sides. The difference was small, but he refused to favor only one side, especially in preparation of such a big match.

“You can return,” Hubert called, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the consistent  _ wacks _ of tennis balls. “Not a full match, but I will rally if you can get a hit in.”

“If?” Mercedes teased. She readied herself, bending her knees and raising her racket. Even from the other end of the court, Hubert could see the smile on her face. “Have a bit more faith in me.”

Hubert looked at where she was standing—too close to the line—and aimed his serve right at her feet. Mercedes was quick, but not quick enough. She fell into position and made contact with the ball, but it went spiraling out of the court.

“That was so close!” Annette assured. Hubert nearly shook his head, although he was surprised that Mercedes had even managed to hit the ball with her poor position on the court. “Back up a bit, so he can’t hit at your feet.”

She took Annette’s advice, so Hubert hit his next serve to the edge of the service box, hoping that she wouldn’t be able to cover the distance. Mercedes was quick on her feet, taking off the moment the ball left Hubert’s racket, anticipating the rally. With a grunt, Mercedes sent the forehand straight back with confidence. Hubert’s backhand would have gone past Mercedes, if it wasn’t for Annette who covered the service line with a “got it!”

Hubert charged the net, sending an overhead to the corner that Annette had left.

“Sorry. I wasn’t quick enough for his return,” Mercedes said to her partner. “Good save!”

“Good return.” Annette laughed, before a breathless, “he’s  _ scary  _ at the net.”

The girls tapped their rackets together as Hubert readied himself for his next serve. He didn’t know how the two of them could be so perky about the situation; there was a chance that they would leave without a medal. What were they doing wasting their time?

Mercedes’s next return spiraled into the net, but she didn’t seem too bothered. “Good serve. How did you get into tennis?”

It was an innocent enough question, but Hubert was always bothered by it. It had never been his own decision. “I’ve been playing it since I was four.”

“Me too!” Annette joined in the conversation. Hubert moved to the other side of the court, making sure that she knew the ball would be coming to her the next time. “My father used to play with me. Whenever I won a game, he would get so happy that he would take me out for ice cream.”

Annette was smiling, but Hubert didn’t respond. He had never gotten anything in return for being a good player, even when he was little. The only reactions were in the form of punishment when he did a poor job. Even if he won—if his play was sloppy, he would pay for it.

His next serve went into the net.

“Hey, next one,” Annette assured him, but Hubert did his best to ignore her. Ignore both of them. He couldn’t  _ be _ like them, laughing and smiling when they had failed to get the gold medal. If he didn’t make it to the final game… Hubert wasn’t sure he could even step on the court. A bronze was not worth it.

His next serve nearly hit Annette, but she leapt backwards and swung, getting it over the net. Hubert hit a forehand, he could not afford to waste time. There was a crack of a ball as Mercedes played the net. He couldn’t laugh and smile and enjoy the game. Hubert slammed the ball onto the court, out of both of their reach.

He would win.

*

_ You’re gonna kill it :) excited to watch! _

Mercedes tilted her phone towards Annie, letting her read the message from Ingrid. “She was able to make it.”

“Awh, Ingrid,” Annette said, continuing to fiddle with her racket. She wiggled the dampener, making sure one last time that it was still lodged correctly into the strings after replacing it the day before. Neither of them wanted to play with re-stringed rackets for the first time during the game, so their practice with Hubert was enough to make sure they were used to the tension. Annette checked the grip tape, checking that it was secured and wouldn’t threaten coming undone in the middle of the match.

On Annette’s own phone, she had messages from Ashe and her mother, both promising that she was going to do amazing and that they were proud. She couldn’t bury the feeling that a message was missing—but wishing for such a text was wistful thinking. Mercie had told her time and time again that she had to push forward, that she wasn’t playing for  _ him _ .

If only that was the truth.

“Oh, look at this one,” Mercedes yanked her from her spiraling thoughts with another picture. It was of Constance smiling from the stands, leaning on Emile who looked less-than-pleased about the photo opportunity. Annette smiled, knowing that her brother and friend’s support meant the world to her. It was only recently that Mercedes had been able to repair her relationship with both, but it showed on her face. She was vibrant. “Look who’s in the back.”

Mercedes pinched the screen, zooming in on a figure lurking in the background. She nearly gasped when she saw Hubert—dressed in all black and wearing sunglasses—sitting a couple of rows away from the two blondes. “Maybe he’s feeling better,” Annette wondered out loud. He had been so  _ grouchy _ the day before his final game, especially for someone who had a good chance at taking the gold.

“He doesn’t like tennis, I’m surprised,” Mercedes said. It felt blasphemous to say one of the top players in the world didn’t like the sport that he excelled in, but they had seen his attitude on the court. He could care less about enjoying the game, as long as he came out on top. Mercedes didn’t want to pry into him, but it was sad. To spend one’s whole life on an activity and not enjoy it in the slightest.

“Von Martritz and Dominic,” one of the organizers called into the locker room. “It’s time to head to the court.”

“Oh my goodness,” Annette practically jumped from her seat. She sent one last text to Ashe (with plenty of hearts and exclamation points to thank him for coming) and stood from the bench. Both the women picked up their tennis bags before Mercedes wrapped her into a hug.

“Whatever happens, I’m proud of us.”

“I’m proud of us, too, Mercie,” Annette said. It wasn’t easy reaching this point, but she couldn’t put into words how grateful she was for her best friend. Walking to the courts, Annette did her best to shove her anxiety aside and focus on the excitement of being in the stadium once more. Although it could be terrifying at times to have so many eyes on her playing tennis, it was a good feeling to be on the court. All of the people gathered just to watch the sport that her and Mercedes loved—and that in and of itself was a special feeling. A court would always be a court, but she felt important when she didn’t have to keep an extra ball on her person or even having to run after a ball after it had bounced out of play. It was a small difference, but she loved being able to focus on the game and nothing else.

Mercedes and Annette left their bags on the seats, meeting the refs on the court as well as their opponents: Nikolai and Leon. Mercedes remembered them from the preliminary rounds, excited to play against them and their style. The duo was from Dagda and balanced their vastly different play-styles in some wonderful, precarious fashion. Nikolai played with methodical trial-and-error, not afraid to make a mistake if it meant testing the skills of the other players. Their partner Leon played with much more ferocity, but could be offset by too many slips.

Although every player participated in the same game, the dynamics between doubles partners was always something to watch for. A lack of communication could be a chink in the armor, but at this level it was difficult to pick out those weakest points. If Annette and Mercedes had to fault the Dagdan team for anything, it would be a lack of communication. At times they appeared to be playing two separate games entirely, pretending like the other one wasn’t even there.

As they did the coin flip to get the chance to serve first, Annette felt the pressure building. She had messed up the previous match, bringing Mercedes down with her. Her partner had promised that it was fine and that she had played as hard as she could, but she knew that was far from the truth. She was distracted and she didn’t want a repeat this game.

“Is that good?” Mercedes asked and Annette nearly jumped out of her shoes. “We can have the first serve,” she clarified.

“Oh! Yeah, we can do that!” Annette managed, doing her best to make it look like she had been paying attention the entire time. The refs appeared to be convinced, but Mercedes shook her head lightly at her as they returned to their bags before the match.

“What’s wrong, Annie?”

“I don’t want to let you down,” she answered honestly. She knew that there was no point in lying to her friend. “I want you to get the medal.”

“The medal doesn’t matter that much and you could  _ never _ let me down.” Mercedes took a sip of her water, adjusting her visor. “We have gotten so far and I’m proud of us. Now, let’s have a good game.”

Annette was handed the first ball and she took her position on the service line. The two of them would always start the rotation off like this, Annette taking the first serve and Mercedes at the net. It always seemed to be their good luck charm, since Annette had the less-conservative serve. It was good to follow it up with Mercedes’s consistency.

“Love all,” Annette said and bounced the ball once, before tossing it into the air. Mercedes readied herself at the net as Annette served, the ball hitting the top of the net before landing in the service box.

“Let!” the referee called and Annette took a deep breath. She always  _ hated _ messing up the first serve of a set. It made her feel like it would topple all their momentum downhill.

“You’re good, bit higher,” Mercedes assured. “You still have two tries.”

The next serve valiantly sailed over the net and outside of the service box, the ref calling it as out. It was just another nail in Annette’s nerves and she could feel her hands shaking. The second serve was meant to be the one that  _ always _ got in, she could do it. Annette’s eyes widened when she could  _ feel _ she hit the ball wrong before even seeing the trajectory. The ball narrowly missed Mercedes, before bounding helplessly at the net.

“Next one,” Mercedes urged. They switched sides of the court, Annette moving over to the left side of the service line.

“Love-15.”

Annette felt like she was going to  _ cry _ , but she knew better than to do so in front of the crowd, in front of all the cameras, and  _ especially _ in front of her opponents. The rest of the game, she only got one serve in just to have a terrible return and send it off towards the referees on the side of the court. Her heart broke when the game was called.

The rest of the set went about the same, Annette finding it hard to get any points in the rally. They won a single game while Mercedes was serving, but they lost their first set 1-6. She felt terrible, it was her distracted playing once more that was dragging her and her partner down. She could barely catch her breath as the set ended, moving off of the court.

“Annie, it’s okay, deep breath,” Mercedes leaned into her as they had a chance to relax and regroup before the second set. The set that could be their last of the Olympics if they weren’t careful. “We have an entire match ahead of us, take a deep breath.”

She wished she would not have to be given the instruction to breathe  _ twice  _ before realizing that she was barely inhaling. “I’m so sorry, we’re going to lose again.”

“Look at me,” Mercedes said, taking Annette’s hand into hers. She could feel it trembling, so she gave it a squeeze as her friend did her best not to let the tears fall. “You can still come back from this:  _ we _ can still come back from us. That was only one set, we have one more and maybe two to get back into our groove. We can do this.”

“It’s no wonder he doesn’t come to watch,” Annette whispered, “I can’t even get a serve in.”

“Excuse my language,” Mercedes said, still holding her hand, “but  _ fuck _ your dad. You are perfect, Annie. You are a skilled player and an amazing person, whether he comes or not does not reflect on your skill at  _ all _ .”

Annette’s eyes widened. “ _ Mercie! _ ”

“You’re my partner,” Mercedes continued, “and the best tennis partner I could ever ask for. So, let’s get back to playing the best that we can.”

“Love you,” Annette said, wiping the tears from her eyes and taking a deep breath. “Let’s take back this set!”

“Love you, too. Do you want me to take first serve this time?”

“I can do it.” The whistle to start the next set rang clear in the arena. Nikolai and Leon were already stepping onto the court, talking in hushed tones to one another. Annette gave her partner a fist bump. “Let’s do this.”

Annette took the right side of their court as Mercedes kept to the net. They would be receiving in the first game, giving Annette proper time to prepare to serve. Mercedes smiled as she watched Nikolai serve, their braids following the rock of their body as they tossed the ball into the air. She could tell from the net that they thought they had already won, especially smirking at Annie on the service line. She nearly laughed to herself—hopefully, their mistake would be their downfall. She had been playing with her partner for  _ years _ and although she could knock herself down and let anxiety take hold, she always found a way to come back. Annette was a smart, skilled player, and Mercedes would always love being on the court with her.

“Love all,” the opponent called, their serve landing perfectly in the corner of the box. Annette stepped into it quickly, compensating for the bounce and hitting a strong forehand back across the court. The server returned, but Mercedes saw that they were aiming for Annette’s backhand. Mercedes stepped in and punched the ball quickly forward with her racket, aiming at the other net player’s feet. Leon wasn’t able to back up in time, and the point went to Annette and Mercedes.

“Yay!” Annette cheered quietly as she switched to the net, Mercedes taking the newly rotated position to receive. As long as Annette was smiling, she knew that they would be able to continue playing their best while Annette was staying positive. It was the thing she liked the most about Annette: regardless of how big the world got around her, she could always bounce back and not get lost in it.

The rest of the game went smoothly, only losing one of the rallies to Mercedes lobbing the ball out of the court lines. By the time they switched sides of the court and Annette was set to serve, she was back to her usual excellence. Her first serves were powerful and sharp, and when needed, her second serve always landed squarely in the box. Their momentum carried them through the set, winning without much issue, and then straight into the third set—the one that would determine who would get the medal. Even with Annette’s slip ups, she kept her mind focused on the game and all the people who were there to support her. Her mother had come to watch, even if the travel was rough on her. She had Ashe and Ingrid cheering them on from the stands, proud of Faerghus and the chance of bringing home a medal for their country.

And of course she had Mercie, who believed in her regardless of how the tides of the game were changing

The third set was even more satisfying than the second, Annette and Mercedes even bringing a game of love-40 all the way back up to deuce before winning it. The last serve of the game rested on Annette’s shoulders, but she had played her best and was happy regardless of the result. It was the best serve of the entire match—Leon not even able to get their racket on the ball.

As the final whistle blew, Annette dropped her racket, looking to the crowds and all the people who were cheering for her. Maybe, just maybe, her father was watching somewhere. Maybe on his phone, or perhaps a static-filled TV in the middle of nowhere.

And yet, when she looked at Mercedes, she knew that there was no one else’s approval that she needed. Not when Mercie was there to congratulate her. With the biggest smile, Annette ran to her partner and swept her up into a hug.

*

One serve was standing between Hubert and the gold medal.

One serve, followed by a single rally, and he could call it a day.

Hubert bounced the ball, letting himself catch a breath. It had been a long day, especially since he carved out time to watch the beginning of Annette and Mercedes’s match. He expected the simple mistakes that the duo had made throughout the first set, considering their practice strategy. It was obvious that neither of them  _ truly _ wanted the medal—if they  _ did _ , they would be taking practice seriously and not trying to befriend him on the courts. Then he watched as they began to come back in the second set. Annette was smiling and laughing along with Mercedes, and they were  _ winning _ . Before Hubert had taken the court, his phone buzzed with the notification that Faerghus had won the bronze medal.

Hubert tossed the ball into the air, letting his arm extend backwards with the racket and slamming down on it with all his forward momentum.

It hit right outside of the line of the service box. A whistle as it was called a fault.

He sighed, rolling his shoulders back and playing with the second ball in his hands. He had hoped for an ace—a quick end to this set—but now it was a matter of just getting a rally started. He served, but froze when a whistle blew. Hubert turned to argue with the ref when he heard the call—foot fault. He looked down and saw that his foot was indeed over the service line, a mistake that he hadn’t made since he was a literal  _ child _ .

Hubert did his best to not outwardly wince at the mistake. It was something only an amateur—no, a beginner—would make. He switched to the other side, trying to clear his head. “40 serving 15.” His words felt heavy in his mouth. He served and Hubert watched as his opponent stepped into a straight hit, Hubert taking off for the other other side of the court.

Knox, the competitor from Sreng, had been an easy read the whole match. Although he played with high technical skill, he was unable to maintain the same level of collected focus.

The man had hit a cross-court shot, Hubert not having enough time to switch his hit to a backhand.

He nearly screamed at himself for misreading such a simple movement. The little mistakes were going to add up if he continued, and they were all so  _ stupid _ . He wiped his hands on his shorts, trying to get a better grip on his racket and on his focus. This single game was the only thing left. The only roadblock before he could take a damned break and not think about tennis for the next twenty four hours  _ at least _ . He wouldn’t be able to rest more than that, but he wanted  _ out _ of the arena, out of the cameras and lights and crowds.

He lost the next point. Then he lost the deuce.

Hubert could only watch in disbelief as the game score was flipped to 5-1. Since it was an even game, they stayed on the court and his opponent had his chance to serve once more. He readied himself to receive. It was just one game in the bigger match, all he needed was one more game to get to six. One game in the grand scheme of a set was  _ nothing _ .

Until it became two games… then three. Hubert felt like he was watching himself on a screen as he lost rally after rally, the opponent winning a fourth, fifth, sixth,  _ seventh  _ game and the set was called.

He was horrified when one set lost turned quickly into two.

It was the quickest set in the match, Hubert winning one lousy game before his opponent reached six. Even Knox looked surprised, but his shock turned into determination as he saw his chance to win the event. Hubert could practically hear the commentator on the cursed screens: how a fast match with a clear winner was now completely up in the air, how Hubert von Vestra, who never took anything sitting down, was now watching his chance at gold slip right out of his fingers and come crashing down onto the courts of the stadium.

What was his father saying? He could only imagine the feral anger ripping through his chest as he watched the son he raised play like a middle schooler. Or maybe he was silent, plotting how he could ruin his son for bringing shame to the family name. Hubert had never wanted to feel his fist on him ever again, but he could already taste the pain. And he deserved it, he deserved it for fucking up—

“Here’s a ball.” The ball boy was holding it in front of Hubert, and he looked  _ terrified _ when Hubert picked up his head. He did his best to bring back a neutral expression as he snatched the ball from his hand and rose to take the court once more.There was one more set that would determine who deserved the medal—him or the pink-haired player from Sreng. It was never a pleasant time for either player when a match reached its fifth set. Each one had a minimum of six games with at least four rallies resting in each one. All of the playing felt heavy on his body, almost as much as the weight on his mind. His arms were burning, but he took the court with a hardened face.

_ How did Annette and Mercedes do it? _

A serve.

_ He wanted nothing more than to ask how they managed to keep their head on straight after so many mistakes—it was draining. It felt like he wasn’t even playing at this point, just aimlessly hitting the ball, no direction or goal in sight. _

Hubert charged the net, but the ball was lobbed over his head.

_ And yet they love the game, he can see it in the way that they play. When was the last time he picked up his racket just for the sake of playing, not to win? _

A sprint back to the service line, only to luck out and watch it bounce out of play. An opening for another serve.

_ How was he supposed to look his father in the eyes after this shit show… how could he come off of this court regardless of the end result and still be a proud von Vestra? He woke up everyday to get on the courts, for what? _

One game won.

_ He hated this sport. He hated the people. He hated what it had done to him. _

Another game lost.

_ Why does it feel like this is the end? It’s a tennis match—not war. Regardless of how it goes, he would wake up to see another day, but, Goddess, was it painful _ .

The games flew by in a flurry of wins and losses, Hubert falling behind with each passing score. It was hard not to despair as the scorecards were flipped, his end goal becoming shrouded in gloom. He didn’t want to know how it would feel to lose, to not get the gold that his family wanted from him.

_ For them, I play _ . He hit a backhand so hard that he could feel the racket rattle in his hands, nearly dropping it. The chance of failure began to clutch at his throat, even as he watched the ball fall within the court and bounce away from his opponent. A whistle shattered his thoughts and he looked at the game cards being turned. Four points for Hubert and five games lost to his lack of focus.

Hubert felt like a cornered animal. One more game and he could lose… he could lose all that he worked up to and the only thing that would make his father smile favorably upon him. Alone on the court, he looked down to his racket and contemplated chucking it away. He could walk off the court and never look back. He wouldn’t even need to stop at the village, there would be no need to face his teammates. Hubert could not bring back a silver medal—it would be blasphemous.

He had never feared tennis, but the ball felt like a lead weight in his hand. Hubert didn’t even know if he could toss it into the air for the serve, but he did. He pushed through the motions, as if he wasn’t going to lose and that he  _ couldn’t  _ lose. A charge to the net proved successful; Hubert getting another chance at life. He couldn’t help but to wonder what he would be without a racket in his hands, without the ever-present pressure of clawing his way to the top. Hubert hit the ball hard enough that he could hear gasps in the crowd. He ignores the sounds. Why…  _ why _ was he still playing? His grunts got louder, like a war cry.

40-love. Another hit and he won a game.

Somehow, the set sitting at five-all felt even worse. He knew that even if he won or lost the next game, there would still be another. One of them would have to reach seven points in the set, but Hubert wanted nothing more than to abandon the match. And yet, he stood his ground on the court.

On the court, hit after hit, he could feel his moves getting lazier. The technique he had spent years perfecting was thrown out the window and exchanged for brute force. Hit the ball hard enough and with enough spin that it would be nearly impossible for the opponent to hit it back. He was surprised that his racket strings didn’t snap with the force of the ball, and even more shocked when Knox was still able to deflect the hits.

Rally by rally, point by point, game by game: it was all that he  _ could _ do.

Hubert forgot he was only a person, running back and forth on the court and throwing himself at the ball again and again.

The final whistle of the game pierced the air along with the announcement that the empire had won the gold medal in men’s singles. Hubert stood, already hearing the reporters talking about how lucky he was; how much they thought he was throwing the game away.

Hubert fell to his knees. He didn’t know who to thank for his victory, but he thanked them all the same.

*

“You did it!” Mercedes whispered as they stood behind the podium, waiting for their cue to step up and claim the medal. Annette was looking around, distracted, so she did her best to make sure she didn’t lose her best friend and tennis partner.

“ _ We _ did it, Mercie.” Annette shook her head. She took her friend’s hand into hers and squeezed it lightly. There were so many cameras on them and flashing lights—it was all a little overwhelming, but she was glad that they had pushed through together to make it happen. “I couldn’t imagine standing here with anyone else, and I mean it.”

Mercedes was about to thank her when they were motioned onto the podium, the announcer’s voice booming in their ears, “Bronze medalists, representing the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus: Annette Fantine Dominic and Mercedes von Martritz.”

Both of the women took to the podium, not caring that they stood on the lowest step. It was surreal to hear their names being called and they proudly stood hand in hand, waving to the crowds that were cheering for them on the courts. They were both handed a bouquet of flowers before being awarded their medals. Mercedes felt the weight of it around her neck and couldn’t stop smiling as they continued to wave to the crowds and show off what they had won. They had worked hard to get to this moment and knowing that their family and friends were watching both from inside the arena as well as on television was invigorating.

The ceremony went on, the silver and gold medalists being announced before the national anthem of the winning pair echoed over the speakers. Annette was still bouncing on her heels, thrilled with what they had accomplished.

They were paraded around the court to wave to the audience and have photos taken. Annette stood close to Mercedes, leaning into one another as the cameras flashed. Mercedes did her best to memorize the moment, the aspects that wouldn’t be captured in the highlight reels: how the court felt under her feet, the roar of the crowds, and the soft touch of Annie next to her. They were the memories that she didn’t want to fade away, even after they had returned home.

By the time it was Hubert’s turn for the ceremony, he already wanted to go home. It was frustrating to watch his competitors show off their medals—the Sreng opponent from the final match hoisting his hands up into the air and beaming at the crowds. Hubert would not have even been able to  _ look _ at any other medal, even though he knew that he didn’t deserve the gold medal that felt like a weight pushing against his chest, right against his heart. Hubert had played like a madman in his last match, he shouldn’t have won. His father hadn’t even bothered to see him after the match, and he doubted that he would make an appearance to congratulate him on his false medal. Even Edelgard was hesitant to talk about the game, even though he was sure she was just reading his own energy and choosing not to press.

He knew he was glaring at the cameras and that the announcers and journalists would have so much to say about his lack of excitement, but he couldn’t even muster up a smile. The crowd was going to close in on Hubert one day, see what a scam his talent truly was.

Hubert didn’t even realize that they were taking a picture until both of his competitors climbed onto his spot on the podium. He nearly dropped the flowers, looking towards the camera and wincing at the flashing lights. He couldn’t say that he even recognized his own country’s anthem as the Adrestian flag caught the light. All of his friends were the ones who had pride in their country, wanted to win the medal to represent them—but Hubert had no clue who this medal was for. It was barely for his country if not for the points that came with it. His father would never accept a victory that came to him so painfully; it wasn’t the flawless match either of them had been expecting. Hubert, himself, didn’t even want the medal.

He thought he would be left alone to his thoughts after leaving the court, but the staff just ushered him into a side room, letting the players have a chance to interact, celebrate, and see their family outside of the watchful eyes of the press. There was a table filled with refreshments, cheesy memorabilia sitting between platters of crackers and cheese. He grabbed a water bottle and took to a wall, not expecting his family. 

Annette was also not expecting a certain member of her family. Her father’s absence stung as she watched some of the other players embrace their family. Mercedes was stolen away by Emile and Constance, the latter practically overflowing with positive affirmations. She was waiting for her mother when a voice caught her attention.

“Annette!” Ashe greeted, smiling. “Congratulations once more!”

“What are you doing here? Don’t you have your own event to get ready for?”

“Mercedes told me that you might need some support,” Ashe said, shyly. “You have a lot of people rooting for you. Don’t forget that.”

Annette nearly teared up at the gentle reminder, doing her best not to throw her arms around his neck in front of the whole room. They had gotten close since the events started, Ashe helping Annette calm down about the big matches that were to come. He was sweet, just like the pastries that Mercie made.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, settling for taking his hand into hers. “It can just be difficult seeing all the families.”

“I understand,” Ashe assured. “You don’t have to explain yourself.”

“Look at you!” Annette turned to see her mother practically running up to her, gushing over her medal and how mature she looked with it hanging around her neck. She did her best to remind herself to appreciate what was in front of her. There was no use dwelling on those who refused to support her for what she was.

The gathering continued to roar around Mercedes as she let herself get tugged around by Constance. Emile sighed at their friend’s dramatics, but Mercedes knew she was lucky to have both of them in the same place. In the corner of her eye, she made out a shadow on the wall. With a quick smile and a promise to return, she pursued it.

“Hubert, don’t scowl so much at the other players,” Mercedes scolded, making him jump. “Sorry to scare you.”

“You did not scare me.”

“It was a pleasure getting to play with you,” she continued, ignoring his obvious lie. “The reporters got some… choice lines from you about a silver not being worth your time.”

“I must have misspoke,” Hubert amended, but he had seen the headlines. They made him come off as stubborn and ungrateful, but he was exhausted by the time the microphone had been shoved in his face. “For me: no, silver is not worth my time. In regards to others, it’s an accomplishment to enter the brackets at all.”

“You are a strong player, and a really good one at that. The final was a stunning game to watch,” Mercedes continued, not lingering on his terrible attempt at positivity.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Hubert took a sip of water, intending to end the conversation with a well-chosen comeback. “You are a good player as well, you should know better than anyone that the game I played was terrible.”

“It was terrible,” she agreed with a smile, “but you didn’t give up. You’re harder on yourself than Annie… there’s no reason for it.”

“We would get nowhere in life if we  _ weren’t _ hard on ourselves. Success doesn’t come to those who wait.”

“You’re right.” Mercedes paused, fiddling with the bronze medal around her neck. How many people had told her that she had  _ waited _ to get this far? All the broadcasters and interviewers who commented on her age as if it made the achievement worth any less. “And yet you still wait, Hubert.”

The comment, regardless of how sweet it rang on her lips, felt like a stab to the heart. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t love the sport, I don’t think you even  _ like _ it.” Hubert didn’t like how she challenged him, a sweet tone muffling the icy words. “Why are you waiting to do something with your life that you truly care for?”

“And if I said tennis was that thing?”

“I would say you’re lying,” Mercedes pushed off the wall. “I have to go chat with Emile and Constance. I do hope you stop waiting for things to change.”

Hubert nearly laughed as the blonde slipped back into the crowd, quick enough that he could have hallucinated the brief encounter. He wanted to be angry with her. Instead, Hubert tucked his medal in his pocket and prepared to leave. The chatter in the room was loud and well-deserved, but he didn’t feel like celebrating with strangers. He sent a text to Edelgard, asking if she was free. He could figure out his career and his hatred towards the grandeur nature of it another time.

At the moment, he chose to celebrate.

**Author's Note:**

> The absolute biggest thanks to The_Unqualified1 and Avaryss_Ashley for letting me join this project! It was an amazing experience and I met so many wonderful people that I cannot afford to ramble about, dare I risk crying ;-;
> 
> Thank you Ashley as well for the beta! I couldn't have done this without all of you support <3
> 
> Stay tuned for the rest of the Olympics! We have lots of good sportsball ahead!


End file.
